A Long Winter's Night
by Celestejz
Summary: Vaughn and Sydney are trapped in the Urals after a mission goes awry.
1. A Long Winter's Night: Prologue

**Title: **_A Long Winter's Night _

**Author: **Celestejz

**Summary**: Inspired by Boris Pasternak's " Winter Night". (Which you can read here: http: Don't belong to me, etc. etc.

**Prologue**:

A candle slowly burns on the windowsill.

For the past couple of hours, this has been their only source of light, a beacon in what would otherwise be an inky nightmare of despair.

As rivets of wax slowly drip down the candle, plinking gently onto the splintered wooden frame, the two lovers' cling to each other, knowing that come morning, their fate will be decided.

Life or death lies just a few hours away.

It is nearing midnight, in the Russian countryside. In a far-flung region of the Urals, flurries of snow are swirling merrily around the expansive night sky.

It is wintertime in the region, an extended period of time renown for notoriously bad weather. Temperatures can often drop down in the negatives, and there are often very few hours of sunshine in a day. Couple these two things together, it is little wonder that droves of people fall sick every year. Many stay inside for a profound number of hours every day, simply to avoid the stress of tangling with natural forces.

He reaches out to her, and touches her gently on the cheek. Her skin is waxen and cold to the touch, but she struggles to smile.

"Quite a place for a honeymoon, huh?" She jokes weakly, as she turns to look at him. Her face is remarkably pale now, and her eyes have morphed into narrow slits of pain.

"Well, it was either this or Italy." He shrugs and winks at her with a forced nonchalance, trying hard not to cry. It pains him to see her so frail and vulnerable."And who wants to go and sun themselves on the Italian Rivera when you can have the snow-covered Urals? I thought the choice was obvious."

"Of course." Her lips turn up in an obvious attempt to provide a happy face, but the moment as fleeting, as she grimaces instead.

Gripping on to her hand, he feels helpless, as she visibly fights the pain. The seconds slowly tick by…one…two…three…

As she finally falls limp again, he soothingly strokes her hair. "Was it bad?" He whispers, already knowing the answer.

It was obviously painful, but he knew she'd try to make light of it.

"Not as bad as the time I was tortured by Suits and Glasses." She mumbles back, reaching to entwine his hand with her own.

He doesn't respond, choosing instead to focus on the candle, that is flickering unsteadily on the frost covered windowsill. By the looks of it, the candle would only be of use for another hour or so.

And then, they'd be left in the dark.

But before he can let his mind contemplate that decidedly grim possibility, he is quickly summoned back to reality. She is gripping his hand again, as another jolt of pain ricochets through her.

He murmurs a series of nonsensical words to her, as he silently urges her to hold on. Just a few more hours…hang on…


	2. A Long Winter's Night: Chapter 1

**Author's note: **Whoa. Thanks for the reviews, guys. They're much appreciated and motivate me to write.

Anyway, following is the first chapter of the story. I apologize if things seem confusing - they will clear themselves up in due time.

Unfortunately, no S/V in this chapter. They will show up by the next installment though.

**Location: **Berlin, Germany

**Time: **Two months prior

It's the pre-dawn hours in Berlin.

For most Berliners, this is most definitely a time for rest.

After a long day at work and play, it only makes sense to curl up on a comfortable matress and drift off into the soothing dream world for a few hours, before returning to reality.

However, in a far and isolated corner of the slumbering city, a young man is too busy thinking about how to effectively dodge his enemies, to even ruminate about the possibility of dreaming.

He is running for his life.

Dressed in a pair of black jogging pants and a thick navy sweatshirt, the blonde-haired college-aged student looks like any regular sports enthusiast, out for a little early morning exercise.

Granted, it's ridiculously cold outside, but that's never stopped physical fitness addicts before, right?

But for those in the know, this is more then just a run. This is a flee from the evils that are about to overrun this man's life.

They've taken his sister already, and he knows that it is only a matter of time before they come for him as well.

As his footsteps thud quiently on the worn gravel streets of Berlin's commercial district, the young man glances quickly at his watch before making a sharp right.

He has now veered into a street devoted largely to small clothing botiques, and it is here, he will try to initiate contact.

Trying to ignore both the thudding in his stomach and the feeling that he's being wathced, the young man pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose before making his way to a pay phone located at the far end of the street.

Striding purposefully, the young man reaches the public phone in a matter of seconds. Though the phone is not in an enclosed booth, he will have to take his changes. The young man glances surreptitiously around before grabbing the bright red handle.

As the sound of the soothing dial tone hits his ear, he reaches into his pocket and quickly pulls out a crumbled business card.

With shaking hands, he drops some coins into the machine and quickly dials the scrawled numbers on the back.

The phone is answered within a matter of seconds. "Hello, American embassy."

"I need to speak to Sydney Bristow." His words are clipped and hurried, as he glances over his shoulder.

Although the streets are still deserted, he still needs to be careful. There's still no telling who might be listening.

In recent months, ears have started popping up everywhere. Much like "Big Brother" in George Orwell's _1984, _much of those "in the know" in Germany are now being watched.

One toe out of line for any of them, and it's over.

The voice on the other end - '_female, young' - _ hesitates, before querying, "I'm sorry, who?"

Although he knew earlier on, that he would be met with reticence and flat out denials when he attempted to contact Fräulein Bristow, he is still annoyed at the woman's refusal.

'_Can't they tell that this is a matter of urgency?' _

Trying hard not to let the phone slip out of his clammy hands, the young man quickly checks his watch. Time is running out. With every tiny click of his watch, he is coming nearer and near to his death.

He tries again. "I need to speak with Sydney Bristow. She is a CIA officer and I need her help." He hopes that insistent ring in his voice will prove that he is indeed, serious.

The voice on the other line hesitates again. "Who is this?"

_Tick, tick, tick. _The clock continues to tick away.

His final words are hurried and rushed. "I'm someone that needs Fräulein Bristow's help. I have information for her about the rätsel project.It is absolutely vital that I speak t-."

With a sudden burst of static, the young man's words are cut off. Try as she might, the young switchboard operator at the CIA main phone bank can't get him back.

The phone line is dead.


	3. A Long Winter's night: Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

**Location:** Weiss Residence

**Time:** 30 hours after the phone call

_Ring, ring_.

It's a rather silly thing, but Eric Weiss has always been one of those people who has rather cherished his beauty rest.

Much like the celebrated Ben Franklin, Eric has always believed that for a man to be healthy and wise, (_ 'Or reasonably smart in my case,'_) said man must always be in bed before 11:00 p.m.

Granted, this is a little hard to manage with the odd hours that he works for the agency.

More often then not, Eric seems to find himself playing "spy wingman" – a phrase that Vaughn coined recently – running around various parts of the world at rather obnoxious and obscene hours.

When he does get to rest, he often finds himself being awoken at weird hours for "breaking situations". 

Such as now.

_Ring, ring._

Groaning slightly, Eric blinks as he's roused out of a particularly pleasant dream involving Salma Hayek.

As something of a light sleeper, (rather ironic, given his predilection for naps) Eric has never mastered the art of sleeping through his cell phone calls.

_Ring, ring_.

"It's the weekend, damn it." Eric complains to no one in particular, as he keeps his eyes closed. Though his phone is buzzing louder then ever, Eric repositions himself on the bed and vainly trying to will himself back to sleep.

_Ring, ring_.

Well, scratch that.

As the phone continues to buzz with an almost mechanical glee, Eric groans again and sits up abruptly in bed.

Trying hard to resist the urge to act like a petulant child and throw a pillow or two, Eric takes a moment to rub his eyes, before reaching to his left and grabbing the plastic cell phone sitting on his nightstand.

Without bothering to turn on a light, Eric hits the flashing "accept" button and answers the phone.

"Weiss."

"Eric?" The voice on the other end rasps harshly into Eric's ear. It's obvious that Eric's caller hasn't slept in awhile. "It's Brian McAvery. I work in field ops."

"Brian." Eric falters for a moment as he tries to place the name. It's been a rather hectic couple of weeks at the office, and names and dates have begun to blur in Eric's mind.

"We met last week in the coffee room." Brian prompts. "We talked about the Lakers and how poorly they were doing this year."

"Oh. Right." Eric answers promptly, though he really still has no idea who Brian is. There's been such an influx in hiring at the Agency recently, it's getting hard to keep track of new faces. "How are you doing?"

"Fine, thanks." Brian replies. "Listen, I'm sorry that I woke you up, but I was asked to call you in. There's a situation unfolding in the office. We need everyone to come in."

Trying to suppress the groan that has arisen to his throat, Eric settles for making a face at the telephone instead. "Now?"

"Yes, now." Brian answers in a rather bemused tone. "There's a situation in Germany."

"What kind of situation?" Eric queries. 

Normally, agents aren't supposed to discuss unfolding situations over the phone for fear of security breaches, but Eric tries anyway. He needs something to actively focus on, otherwise his mind _and_ his body are both going to just fall asleep again. 

Brian takes a moment to respond. Finally, he asks rather cautiously, "Is this line secure?"

"Yes." Eric affirms quickly as he reaches over to his nightstand to turn on his light. "Marshall tweaked around with the phone awhile back. It's as safe as any landline."

Blinking as the soft glow of the light floods the room, Eric directs his attention back to Brian once again. "So could you brief me on the situation?"

Brian exhales noisily. "Okay, but only for you, Weiss. You know we're not supposed to do this."

"You know I appreciate it, man."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever." Brian scoffs lightly. "Anyway, we're not entirely sure what's going on right now. Apparently, someone called the American embassy about thirty hours ago. The caller claimed to have information on something called the 'rätsel project.'"

Yawning, Eric quickly kicks off his bed covers and hops out of bed. "Okay. Could you elaborate on what the rätsel project is? I've dealt with German affairs before, and this is the first time I've heard of it." 

"Honestly, as of the moment, we have no idea what the caller was talking about." Brian answers. "According to the transcripts we've received, and the interview with the operator who picked up the phone, the caller never elaborated on the project." Brian coughs lightly before continuing. "Instead, he kept saying that he had to talk to Sydney Bristow."

"Sydney?" Eric, who has now made his way next to the mountain of unfolded clothes sitting by his bed, nearly drops the phone. "Why Sydney? Did he say how he knew her?"

"No." Brian sighs, rather impatiently. "That's why we're having everyone come in. We need to figure out what's going on. Given the current state of affairs between German and Amer-", Brian suddenly cuts himself off as a voice sounds next to him. "Oh my god."

The field op technician's voice has grown decidedly cold. His words are tinged with a hint of shock.

"What?" Eric demands as he listens to the unsteady breathing on the other end.

There's a rather grim pause, and then Brian manages to stammer, "Eric, you better come in as soon as you can. The American embassy in Moscow was just bombed."


	4. A Long Winter's Night, Chapter 3

**Author's note: **Again, thank you for the review, guys.

Some things to know about this chapter:

1) It will still be confusing.

2) No S/V. I've again pushed them back.

3) This is slightly AU, and people - e.g. Nadia - will not appear in their "normal" place.

4) Confusion will lessen by the next chapter.

**Chapter 3**

**Time:** Twenty minutes after Brian's phone call.

**Location:** CIA branch headquarters in Los Angeles, CA.

"What do you mean it wasn't a bombing?" Eric sits up in his chair.

David Lansing sighs. "That's not what I said.

In the past twenty minutes or so, Eric's life has been thrown decidedly off-kilter.

After Brian had frantically relayed some scant details about the bombing of the embassy in Moscow, Eric had scurried around, hastily throwing on clothes on before rushing to his car.

Normally something of a fastidious driver, (Eric had recently purchased a BMW and rather valued the pristine condition that "Betty" was currently in), Eric had hurried through empty Los Angeles streets at break-neck speeds, praying that he would not run into a cop.

After all, it was the end of the month, and he knew that there were still hungry cops out there with quotas to will.

As he had driven, one bleak scenario after another had flashed through Eric's mind. Though he wasn't personally acquainted with anyone who worked at the Moscow embassy, he knew that a tragedy of these proportions could wreak havoc on the government and its security agencies.

First, there would be the question of the injured.

For the past two weeks or so, Moscow's embassy had been playing house to some of the top government officials in the United States. Members of Congress and the Senate had gone for a diplomatic good-will tour of Russia sometime back, and had been finishing up their tour with an extended stay in Moscow.

If the destruction caused by the bomb was indeed as serious as Brian had claimed, there could be some potentially serious consequences on the ability of the senate and congress to function at a normal capacity. Members of both houses would be trickling in and out of the hospital, and this would probably limit the amount of work that could be done.

And if the injuries were fatal…

Eric had shaken his head and tried to ignore that thought. Though he had seen more then his fair share of death and destruction in his time at the agency, he still tried to avoid the subject whenever possible.

It wasn't that he was cold or callous; it was just that life-endangering harm occurred at such a consistent level in his work, Eric had to have a rather detached attitude towards the pain and the destruction, otherwise it would consume him.

These grim thoughts had continued to trickle through Eric's head as he had continued to drive.

Finally, upon reaching the office, Eric had parked and all but rushed past security and ran – yes, ran – up four flights of stares to his office. He was just far too antsy to wait the minute or so for the rickety elevator that never seemed to work.

However, upon arriving at his office, Eric had all but had the shock of his life.

Initially, Eric had imagined that agents would be rushing around the building, trying to evaluate the situation in Moscow. The building was sure to be a hubbub of activity, given the state of affairs between the US and Russia at present.

However, as he had forcefully stomped through the glass doors marking the entrance to his floor, Eric had been shocked to see that none of his fellow agents looked particularly busy, as they had all turned to look and nod at him.

Instead, most of them were sitting quietly in their cubicles, processing various bits of information that were streaming through to them through computers, phones and televisions alike.

One agent – Matthew Scott – had even smiled confusedly at Eric and asked just what he was doing there.

"I was called in about the bomb." Eric had replied, feeling almost ready to burst under the strain of imagined scenarios he had just put himself through.

Matthew had frowned. "What bomb?"

"The bomb in Moscow?" Eric's voice had been forcefully calm. Just what was going on?

Shaking his head, Matthew had raised his eyebrows at another agent, before leaning over his cubicle to pat Eric on the shoulder. "Dude, I think you need to relax."

Though Eric's immediate reaction had been to angrily brush Matthew's hand off, he had remained calm enough to inquire after the location of David Lansing.

A rather unfortunate looking man with a predilection for donuts and Britney Spears, David was always the go-to guy on the forth floor whenever the other more senior agents were out of the office. Once one of the top agents for the CIA, David had retired from active duty two years ago, claiming he rather liked "baby-sitting the office" a little more.

Though Weiss had never particularly enjoyed David's company, (David was just a little too smarmy for Eric – always reminding Weiss that whatever he managed to pull of in field work, David had probably done it first) desperate times called for desperate measures.

Not surprisingly, Eric had found David in his office, with a rather alarmingly box of donuts sitting next to him.

"Weiss?" David had greeted Eric.

Oh, that was another thing. David had the unfortunate ability to be one of those people who never ended their phrases properly. For him, everything came out as a question.

"I was called in by Brian McAvery." Eric had responded.

Though Eric had planned to immediately launch into a spiel about the bomb, he had suddenly remembered why Brian had initially called him.

"I was told that there was a situation in Germany," Eric grumbled, when David had waved him into a chair. For some strange reason or other, the lights in David's office had been flickering on and off with rather insistently. It was headache inducing.

David nodded. "Yes. I'm glad you came in so quickly, because we need to start working on finding out what's going on? I hate to say it, but I think this is one of those times that we're going to be forced to stumble around in the dark for awhile, hoping to strike on the right thing?"

_'Did that even make sense?'_ Eric wondered for a second, before getting back on point. "I was also told that there was a breaking situation in Moscow."

Surprisingly, David had suddenly started. However, just as quickly, the rotund man's features had suddenly relaxed. "Ah?"

Even that sounded like a question.

"Yes." Eric had replied firmly. "Now, what is going on? Brian told me that the American embassy in Moscow had been struck by a bomb. However, when I came in, no one seemed to know anything about that."

David had been silent for a minute. Finally, he had leaned forward in his chair. "Weiss, I'm going to tell you something, but this is under the strictest of confidence." Without waiting for a sign of acknowledgment from Eric, David had continued. "The bombing in Moscow was not a bombing."

Naturally, Eric had all but freaked.

"What do you _mean_ it didn't happen?" Eric asks again, before rubbing his forehead furiously with his right hand.

For the past ten minutes or so, Eric has all but asked the same question again and again.

David shakes his head. "That's not what I said, Weiss."

"Sure you did." Eric counters, with a rather imperious expression on his face. "You just sat there and told me that the American Embassy in Moscow wasn't bombed."

"Again, I repeat myself." David huffs, as he turns his back on Eric and directs his attention back to his flashing computer screen. "That's not what I said."

"Sure." Eric retorts. "Except for the part where you totally did."

"Okay, look." David takes a moment to wrinkle his nose at his monitor – it's obvious he's just garnered some news he would've rather avoided- and turns back to Weiss. "I understand that you're tired, and that you're annoyed, but please." David holds up both hands in mock surrender and tries to feign a friendly smile. "Let's try and get along so we can figure this out, okay?"

Eric nods.

"Good." David smiles belittlingly. "Now, what I said, was that the bombing wasn't a bombing."

"Okay."

"Instead, it was a break-in." David continues on slowly, making sure Eric is getting every word.

Though he knows that David is trying to make things understandable for his own benefit, Eric still can't help but be annoyed as David explains things. The whole situation is so confusing and so perplexing, it's almost bordering on comical.

"We believe that a Russian terrorist organization broke into the embassy, to steal files. They orchestrated a fake bomb to cover the situation up."

Eric rubs his chin thoughtfully. He still has no idea what's going on, but he'll play along. "Okay, two questions. First, do we know which Russian terrorist organization it was? And second, how exactly does one orchestrate a bombing?"

David sighs again, before pulling his glasses off. Without the spectacles perched on his nose, David's eyes are looking slightly less bulbous. "Look, Weiss – before I continue, I have to let you know, this is rather classified information. The only reason I'm letting you in on this, is because this is connected to the Berlin phone call. And we're going to need your help on the case. "

"Then why did Brian McAvery known about it?" Eric counters promptly.

"Mr. McAvery just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time." David answers. "This is a complicated situation, and it's going to take sometime for me to explain."

"Well, as I'm already up…"

"Fine." David shakes his head, as if realizing he is doing this against his better judgment. "What I'm about to tell you is in the strictest of confidence. You're to uphold the secrecy of this under any and all circumstances."

"Fine." Though David's words sound rather ominous, they're actually fairly routine for Weiss. Senior-level CIA officers are routinely asked to "uphold secrecy" for specific agendas.

David takes a deep breath."In the past two months or so, the US government has been led to believe that previously assumed dead Irina Dereveko, is still alive. We believe that she is responsible for the kidnapping and deaths of several dozens of people around Europe."

Eric's exclamation is uneloquent and heard halfway across the room. "Wait, _what_?"


End file.
